Stardust on my Pillow

I've noticed that I hardly ever write (or bother reading) reviews now that I'm a freelance editor myself and have so much required reading (and sometimes additional research) to do, but today I decided to pick up one of my old, dearly-beloved books to read over my cup of morning tea:
Stardust on my Pillow by Patsy Clairmont.

Okay, so it's not as old as the massive, five-volume Bible Encyclopaedia by Zondervan that I have to refer to for my current research - on loan by my dad, obviously! But this book I want to blog about today is one that found its way to me shortly after my mother passed away.

Dad attends Christian book conventions in the USA annually and he brings home crates of assorted books, fresh from the publishers, some even autographed by the authors themselves :) My father and I, and my mom before she died, always looked forward to this 'bumper crop' as it usually meant we could happily sink our teeth in books for months to come, without having to visit another bookstore :P Though admittedly, our appetite has been somewhat suppressed since I married a non-bookworm :P Of course dad would always have specific crates of heavy theological stuff no one will fancy pawing at but my mum and I would get to pick whatever we wanted for ourselves or to give away.

Well back to the book. It arrived at our house July 2000 when I was in a really bad shape emotionally. Life had taken a serious downturn after the funerals (we'd lost both mum and grandma) and I guess being eighteen, no one really takes you seriously.

In that in-between age, when you are seen crying people imply you are being childish. When you vent your anger you are immature. When you laugh too much in church you're labeled a bimbo. (I seriously will never forget the 'mentor' who said that to me in my face. Yes, of all people! A mentor. Why do you think there are so many youths who drop out of church? Why do you think so many youths throw their lives away?)

I'm not going to recommend this book for guys. It's really a girly cuddle in disguise.

Of all the books I'd seen in those eighteen years (not forgetting the books I catalogued as a librarian), this book taught me that it's REALLY okay to cry.

I still remember the first time I sat down and read it out of an open crate on the floor of our living room.

I'd just rolled out of bed, feeling intense dread at the thought of repeating an academic year. I had not been sleeping well for over a month and I had not smiled in days. I wasn't even halfway through the first chapter but I was already bawling.

Each chapter seemed to release a new floodgate. My heart seared with pain and I didn't think I could continue reading on. And there were a few times I had to stop reading, because I simply couldn't see through the tears anymore.

I remember setting down the book aside, instead of into the small pile of books I'd picked out, unsure if I should keep it after all. Don't get me wrong, Clairmont's writings are all masterful. Her style is inimitable. But this particular piece was incredibly beautifully written. Like nothing else I'd read in ages. But, it made me cry so badly I ended up missing a few classes that first day.

It has been eight years since that first day, and over the years I've accompanied numerous cups of tea with this book, tearing up less and less with each visit. I know the stories by heart now. I've truly, I know it sounds like a cliche come to regard this book as a friend.

Somehow, as much as I have always liked Clairmont, I only thought of googling for her website today, and in the processed stumbled on her blog. And so I very happily bookmarked them :)


- 7 October 2008 12:24pm -